


passion's a prison (you can't break free)

by girodelles_waifu



Series: shot through the heart [2]
Category: Romeo & Juliet - Takarazuka Revue, Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Takarazuka Revue Musicals
Genre: (boy howdy so much of that also), (boy howdy so much pining), Knives, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24339634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girodelles_waifu/pseuds/girodelles_waifu
Summary: When Benvolio and Tybalt end up trapped in close quarters outside Verona, tensions and desires rise.
Relationships: Benvolio Montague/Tybalt
Series: shot through the heart [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757752
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50





	passion's a prison (you can't break free)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the performers from the 2010 Takarazuka musical (seen here: https://imgur.com/a/qteFByP)

Benvolio can’t help but feel relieved to be out of Verona for once, even if he’s only a day’s journey away in Rovigo. The boat ride down the river Po to the coast is relaxing, especially since he’s so rarely able to have such a long amount of time to himself in Verona; much as he loves his friends, he has to admit Mercutio and Romeo’s pranks and bickering can become wearying at times. 

While Rovigo is yet some distance from the sea, he almost imagines he can smell the salt in the air, and at the very least the atmosphere in the smaller city is much clearer than that of Verona. Even Lady Montague’s boring errand isn’t enough to dampen his mood. Apparently she needs some old family paperwork obtained from a lawyer whose office has moved from Mantua to Rovigo over the past couple decades, and the documents are confidential enough that she can only trust another Montague with them.

“Watch out the Capulets don’t hunt you down for them,” Mercutio warned him jokingly as he and Romeo saw Benvolio off—they rode as far as the docks with him, and even packed luncheon for him (mostly sweets from Romeo, and apples Benvolio hoped Mercutio hadn’t stolen). “I’m sure Tybalt would love to catch you alone and stab you in the back.”

This fear is ridiculous, of course.

The Capulets have no reason to even know about this little trip of his; it’s too boring for Mercutio to be blabbing about. There’s absolutely no reason for Tybalt to be here, dozens of miles away from Verona.

So why does he keep imagining he sees him everywhere?

Half a dozen times, just on his walk from the docks to the cramped street that houses the tower headquarters of the Rovigo Lawyer’s Guild, he whirls around at a flash of red and gold in the corner of his eye, ready to defend himself. For once, it’s a good thing he isn’t armed, he thinks. Otherwise, a startled flower peddler might have called the watch on him by now.

He never realized how exhausting living in Verona is before, but now he that he’s in a different city, where he didn’t need to worry about fighting for his life every other minute, he feels a huge sense of relief from pressure he never noticed before. If only he could forget Tybalt, the day would be perfect.

But Tybalt is a hard man to forget.

Benvolio can still remember the first day Tybalt appeared in Verona. Tybalt was related to the Capulets only through Lady Capulet’s marriage into the line of succession, but despite that—or perhaps because of that, Benvolio muses—he threw himself into the longstanding feud between the city’s two oldest families without hesitation. 

In that first encounter, with his gold-ornamented brown curls flying around his tanned skin and the tight red leather of his coat, he combined the beauty of Saint Sebastian with the shining fury of Archangel Michael. Benvolio found him breathtaking. 

Before he knew it Benvolio was pushing his way through the brawl to reach him. For a brief moment Tybalt seemed intrigued at his boldness, and he hoped that there was a chance he could win over the latest member of the Capulets, and gain an ally similarly detached from the feud. Tybalt quickly disillusioned him. It was only Mercutio’s quick action that kept him from getting his throat cut, and he’s known to approach Tybalt cautiously ever since.

It isn’t that Tybalt has any hatred for Benvolio in particular. In fact, Tybalt most likely only notices him when he blocks him from attacking Mercutio. But as Mercutio’s main protector among the Monagues, this means Benvolio runs into him regularly.

Another flash of crimson. Benvolio turns yet again, although he catches himself quickly enough to slow the action into something approaching normal. But rather than the Capulet warrior, he sees a richly dressed courtesan standing under the awning of an embroidery workshop. When she notices him looking, she shifts her red silk skirt slightly to expose a white ankle, then frowns as Benvolio hurries on, ducking his head to hide the bright flush on his cheeks.

He’s just embarrassed at making her waste her effort, he tells himself, breaking off the train of association before the courtesan’s red skirt and gold anklet can lead him back to Tybalt. It’s ludicrous to think of Tybalt in such a way. Even if Benvolio was interested in him, he knows from experience that Tybalt would as soon strangle him as look at him.

And he definitely doesn’t find that thought tempting.

At all.

By the time he reaches the lawyer’s office, he’s glad for the distraction. Perhaps when he’s back in Verona everything will make sense again, and he’ll remember why it’s so unwise to let thoughts of Tybalt entice him.

“...you’re sure he’s not in?”

“He left nearly half an hour ago,” the clerk repeats. “He won’t be back until after morning Mass tomorrow. You’ll have to leave your message and come back at noon.”

Benvolio sighs, taking the pen and scrap of parchment that the clerk gives him and writing a quick note to leave along with Lady Montague’s letter. If only he hadn’t become so distracted on the way there, he might have completed his errand right away.

Still, perhaps more time away from Verona would be good for him, if only he could forget Tybalt.

The sun is beginning to set as he steps out of the guild house and heads towards an inn the clerk recommended (obviously more out of a desire to be rid of Benvolio and go home himself than out of any actual concern for his well being).

He’s almost completely able to suppress his defensive reflexes now. Even when he sees another flash of red and gold, he tells himself it’s just the bloody colors of the sunset playing tricks and ignores it.

Thus, when someone hauls him into a dark alley by the back of his leather coat, he’s taken completely by surprise.

“Your purse, my young gallant.”

Rovigo may have escaped Verona’s curse of violence, but it has its dangers all the same. 

Benvolio raises his hands as his assailant gestures with a knife; the ruffian is ragged and obviously unskilled, but he has Benvolio pinned in the alley. He can’t get past him to the way he came, and he can’t turn and flee the opposite way without getting the knife in his back.

The bustling street is only a few paces away, but it might as well be miles, the way they’re neatly hidden behind a heap of crates.

“I carry very little,” Benvolio protests, although he knows the amount of jewelry he’s wearing makes this hard to believe. Mercutio often teases him about the number of rings he wears: when he gets back to Verona he’ll have to admit he was right.

“Hurry it up, if you want to keep your pretty face!”

“As you say…” Benvolio says, reaching inside his coat slowly as he tries to decide whether to actually give up his purse or try to take the thief by surprise and wrench the knife away.

He doesn’t have time to make up his mind.

Benvolio freezes as he feels something fly past his ear, and the thief lets out a yelp as a knife lodges in the pile of crates next to his neck. 

“Get away from him, you cur!”

A few severed white-blond strands drift slowly to the ground in the thief’s wake as he bolts out of the alley and vanishes into the crowd.

Benvolio recognizes the knife, he’s sure.

And the voice.

He turns around.

“...Tybalt? What are you—ow!”

Still frozen in shock (what is he doing there, why did he save him), Benvolio doesn’t even consider dodging. Tybalt shoves him back against the pile of crates, hard enough to knock the wind out of him with a gasp.

“Don’t…” Tybalt makes a sharp growl as he yanks his knife out with his free hand. “Don’t think this changes anything,” he snarls, his face only a few fingers’ breadth away.

“Course not,” Benvolio affirms readily, as Tybalt is now holding the point of the knife hovering by the hollow of his throat. “What are you—”

“I’m _not_ doing this to help you, you dog of a Montague,” Tybalt continues, as Benvolio tries to catch his breath without impaling himself. “Nothing would make me happier than having your corpse at my feet.”

“This much seems clear.” Benvolio swallows hard behind the leather collar necklace he wears.

“Will you _shut up_.” Tybalt leans closer to hiss in Benvolio’s ear, sending a sharp, alluring thrill of danger through him. Benvolio considers nodding, but he can feel the point of the knife pressing under his chin now, so he decides just shutting up is the wiser option. “That’s better,” Tybalt smirks as he leans back. The setting sun lights a golden glow through his hair and over the red leather of his coat, making him look like a highly lethal stained-glass window. “I just think it would be too much of a waste to kill you here, since your worthless pack of friends aren’t around to watch you choke on your own blood.”

Sheathing the knife, Tybalt jerks Benvolio up by his vest and shoves him towards the street. Benvolio nearly stumbles, but manages to keep his footing and save the Montagues from further damage to their reputation as formidable fighters. He wants to flee into the street immediately (surely that’s what he wants), but something keeps him standing there. “So,” he says awkwardly as he brushes off his jacket. “Thanks...anyway…?”

“Get out of my sight,” Tybalt replies, tossing his hair proudly. The thin gold chain of his cross necklace flashes in the setting sun as it shifts across the bare skin framed by his open collar.

“Right. Doing that now.”

Tybalt obviously isn’t about to turn his back on him, and Benvolio doesn’t want to either, so he ends up backing out of the alley, eyes locked with Tybalt’s, until he can blend with the crowd again.

After the long trip, the attempted robbery, and now the bewildering encounter with Tybalt, Benvolio suddenly realizes he’s exhausted. He’s eager to reach the inn and finally get some rest. When he finally sees the welcoming sign, he sighs in relief.

Then he pushes the inn door open and runs straight into an all too familiar leather-clad back.

Tybalt turns and glares at him. “What are you doing here, Montague.”

Benvolio steps around him carefully, keeping an eye on the knife at his belt. “I need a room. Is that a crime?”

“It is when you’re a Montague,” Tybalt mutters as the innkeeper approaches. “Innkeeper, I need a…”

“I’d like to rent a room,” Benvolio says over him.

“...Ah,” the innkeeper replies. “Well. Young sirs, that is a bit of a problem…”

* * *

“To hell with that!” Benvolio hears Tybalt growl as they step outside and head in opposite directions.

“As if I’d ever share a room with a Capulet,” Benvolio tells himself firmly under his breath. Being in such an intimate situation with Tybalt...better not even to think about it.

After checking three different inns and discovering they are all fully rented out, Benvolio finds he has to think about it.

After leaving the fourth inn, he sees Tybalt again and quickly ducks away into an alley.

Outside the fifth inn, Tybalt moves faster.

“Stop _following me,_ ” he growls in Benvolio’s ear.

Benvolio tugs at the arm Tybalt has around his neck. “I’m not!”

Tybalt rests the flat of his knife against Benvolio’s cheek. “Liar. What are you up to?”

“There aren’t even a dozen inns in this town, of course we’re going to run into each other,” Benvolio tries to explain. “I’m not trying to follow you.” Even if he wanted to, he knows better.

After a few more breaths, Tybalt lowers the knife and takes his arm away, shoving Benvolio forward roughly. “Fine. Just stay away from me.”

Benvolio tries.

He really does.

Honestly.

But even so, they both arrive at the last inn in Rovigo at the same time, only to hear the news that it, too, is completely full.

They don’t walk back to the first inn together, of course.

They just happen to take the same road in the same direction.

“Oh. You’re back,” the innkeeper says as Tybalt throws the door open. He sounds disappointed.

“Innkeeper, is that room—hey!”

Tybalt pushes Benvolio out of the way. “Is that room still available? I’ll pay you double what he would.”

Benvolio wants to protest, but Tybalt is probably speaking the truth; Lady Montague gave him a generous allowance for this trip, but of course she didn’t forsee a situation such as this. Tybalt turns to smirk at him and he looks away, folding his arms.

“I am afraid, sir, that I cannot charge more than the range agreed on by the guild…”

“I was here first!” Tybalt insists.

“You were not!”

“...but you could...share...the room?” The innkeeper repeats his earlier explanation nervously, keeping a close eye on Tybalt. The gash Tybalt’s knife left in the counter the first time he suggested this is still visible, although a valiant effort has been made to fill it in with putty over the last two hours.

Tybalt’s hand tightens around the gilt handle of the knife.

“I can, uh, just rest in the dining room,” Benvolio suggests. “Or the stables—”

“What, and have you hamstring my horse?” Tybalt grips Benvolio’s arm tight enough to make him wince. “No, you’re staying where I can keep an eye on you. We’ll take your room, there—” He tosses several gold coins onto the counter.

“Up the stairs at the end of the corridor,” the innkeeper says quickly, taking a step back as Tybalt half-drags Benvolio towards the stairs.

“I’m not—ow, watch it—I’m not plotting anything, and I don’t want to hurt your stupid horse.” Benvolio wants to shout in frustration, but it comes out closer to an exhausted sigh. After walking through half the town trying to find another room, all he wants is a good night’s sleep, but he can tell that’s not in his future.

“As if I’d trust anything a Montague says,” Tybalt retorts. He shoves the door of the room open and stops short. “Hm.”

“What is it _now,_ oh great Capulet,” Benvolio grumbles, wrenching his arm away. “Oh.”

“Fuck this,” Tybalt mutters under his breath.

Benvolio starts to back towards the door. “I’ll just find a settle in the dining room, I swear I won’t do any—”

In one smooth motion, like a wolf springing on a deer, Tybalt turns and kicks the door shut behind Benvolio, then shoves him back against it, pinning him with an arm across his chest. “You are not going anywhere,” he growls, using the flat of the knife to force Benvolio’s face towards him.

Benvolio tries very hard to feel intimidated. He doesn’t. He just feels tired and...something else which he isn’t going to consider right now. “Look, can we do this later?” he says after a long breath.

Tybalt blinks, his finely carved brows shifting from their scowl into a confused tilt. “What.”

Benvolio gestures as best he can with Tybalt pressed against him, trying not to think about how he can feel Tybalt’s hipbone against his side. “You know, this. The scary Capulet menacing business. Please. I...for God’s sake, I just want some rest, alright? You can threaten me in the morning, if it makes you feel better.”

Tybalt frowns. Benvolio gasps softly as he puts the point of the knife under his chin, with just enough pressure that he has to tilt his head back if he doesn’t want it to draw blood.

Just as Benvolio begins to wonder if Tybalt really is going to just slit his throat and be done with it, Tybalt takes a step back, sheathing the knife and turning away with another toss of his heavy curls. “Fine,” he says. 

“Fine,” Benvolio agrees.

“You were starting to bore me anyway.”

“...Sorry to disappoint?”

“Shut up.”

The next hour or so passes in near silence, as they each do their best to ignore both each other and the inevitability they will eventually have to confront. The inn staff brings them supper, as well as Tybalt’s luggage from his saddle. Tybalt quickly claims the single table in the room, so Benvolio takes the other chair and sits next to the wardrobe, balancing his plate awkwardly.

After they finish eating, Benvolio stares out the window at the street outside as Tybalt organizes the contents of his pack (it holds, as far as Benvolio can tell, mostly more knives).

But finally there are no other delays possible and they have to address the issue at hand.

They both stare at the bed.

The one bed.

It’s not large.

“I mean, I can just…” Benvolio gestures at the chair.

Tybalt grabs his arm again. “I’m not having you strangle me in my sleep. You’re staying—”

“Where you can keep an eye on me, yes, I know,” Benvolio sighs. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a suspicious person?”

“Nobody I could trust.”

While Benvolio is trying to decide if Tybalt was making a joke or not, Tybalt pushes him aside and sits down on the edge of the bed, bending down to remove his boots. His hair falls to one side, showing a narrow strip of bare skin at the back of his neck above the collar of his jacket.

Benvolio slowly reaches up to shed his own coat, then falters and settles for removing his rings one by one, laying them out neatly on the table. When he finishes, he turns and realizes Tybalt is watching him. By now Tybalt has shed his jacket and tossed it over the headboard, as well as loosening the ties of his ruffled collar, exposing most of his breastbone. He leans back on the bed and meets Benvolio’s gaze, his expression indecipherable but intent.

Benvolio flushes and turns around quickly before sliding his coat off and laying it carefully over his chair. Without the long leather coat draping around him he feels dangerously exposed as he fumbles with the buttons of his vest. Reaching up, he debates removing the leather choker, but decides he prefers the illusory feeling of protection it gives. When it comes to removing his boots, he briefly considers sitting down on the edge of the bed as well, but approaching Tybalt in this level of undress before absolutely necessary is out of the question, so he ends up bracing himself awkwardly against the wall.

Tybalt stands up slowly, with a panther stretch that tugs the hem of his soft silk shirt out of his waistband on one side, and walks over to the table to rummage in his pack on the other chair.

Benvolio takes a step back. “What are you—” He sighs. “Are you really…”

Tybalt raises his eyebrows as he looks down at the long dagger in his hand. “Obviously.” He turns down the covers, positions himself next to the wall, and lays the dagger in the middle of the bed, keeping one hand on the hilt. “Well?”

“That’s the least damn obvious…” Benvolio slowly drags his hands down over his face. “Jesus. Fine, I don’t even care as long as I can get some sleep.” This is more to himself than Tybalt, who doesn’t seem to realize how beautiful he looks half-sitting in the bed with one shoulder nearly bared by the mottled red silk. He resembles an ancient pagan statue come to life. 

Benvolio takes a deep breath, then steps over to the candelabra on the wall and blows out the light, cutting off the tempting image. As he leans on the edge of the bed, he pauses. “You know what my friends will do to you if anything happens to me,” he says, hoping his voice doesn't betray him.

“So do you,” Tybalt replies

“Fine.” Benvolio lies down and pulls up the covers.

“Fine.”

Benvolio thought it would be easier once they were both in the dark, but feeling the vague warmth of Tybalt’s presence behind him and knowing that he’s right there, only a few handspans away, is almost unbearable.

It takes him what feels like hours to fall asleep, and as he tosses and turns he runs into Tybalt’s blade more than once. Once, as he jerks his hand back, he brushes against Tybalt’s bare wrist.

That doesn’t help matters at all.

When he wakes he knows he’s going to have to spend weeks trying to forget the dreams.

It’s already late morning. Daylight is streaming through the curtains, but as he sits up Benvolio realizes Tybalt is not yet awake. He was certain that he would be up first, to ensure his Montague enemy wouldn’t try anything, but he’s still sound asleep, breathing softly with a strangely peaceful smile on his slightly parted lips. His hair is spread over the pillow, shining faintly in the sunlight, and Benvolio feels a sudden urge to reach out and touch one of the curls.

Just as he does Tybalt shifts a little, with a small sigh far different from his usual angry snarling. Benvolio snatches his hand back and scrambles out of the bed before Tybalt can wake and find him staring. He could never explain that, and Tybalt would probably just stab him before he got a chance to try, anyway.

Benvolio knows he should try to be out of the room before Tybalt can wake, but feels all too happy when this doesn’t happen. 

Tybalt rouses as Benvolio is buttoning his vest. He seems to have forgotten he isn’t the only one in the room; he yawns and stretches, his posture relaxed and unguarded, at least until he glances down and sees the dagger lying by his hip.

Benvolio freezes halfway through putting a ring on as Tybalt vaults out of the bed and thrusts the dagger at his face.

“I told you I wouldn’t do anything,” Benvolio says, and then his tongue gets away from him. “See? Unstrangled, virtue intact—” He cuts himself off with a sharp breath.

Tybalt snarls at him vaguely, although the clear difficulty he’s having seeing through the hair in his face lessens the effect. “Shut up if you want to keep breathing,” he growls as he shoves the curls back with his other hand.

“Of course,” Benvolio says quickly in a small voice, trying not to stare at the cross necklace and how it accentuates the way Tybalt’s shirt is falling open. “I...I’ll just leave to finish my errands and you won’t have to see me again until we’re back in—ow!” He winces as he slides a ring on over one of the scrapes. “Look, I’ll just get out of your way, alright?”

Snatching up his jacket and boots, Benvolio grabs Tybalt’s wrist—surely he’s imagining the way Tybalt’s breath hitches as he touches him, the way his eyes widen—and ducks under his knife hand to run for the door of the room. He doesn’t pause until he reaches the main floor of the inn.

Now he can finally get his errand done in peace and escape back to Verona, well away from the delightful torment of being so close to Tybalt.

* * *

“So.” Benvolio sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “So why, in God’s name, are you following me _now._ ”

“You don’t think I’m stupid enough to stand back and let you get away with your schemes against the Capulets, do you?” Tybalt leans on Benvolio’s shoulder with mock friendliness, smirking.

The thick curls brush against his cheek as Benvolio pushes him off. “I’m not scheming against the Capulets! I’m delivering mail! I told you!”

“Hm.” Tybalt looks away and draws his knife, testing the point against a finger. The long dagger from the night before is now thrust into his boot. “I guess I’ll find out.”

“You’re about to have a very boring day,” Benvolio says.

“Maybe...maybe not.”

Even if he knew what Benvolio's task in Rovigo was, he couldn’t possibly actually have any interest in stealing the documents, Benvolio is sure. Tybalt is just enjoying tormenting him. That must be why he keeps watching him so intently.

They arrive at the guild house to discover that the lawyer Benvolio needs to meet is late for work, which means a long, awkward wait in the corridor outside the office. For what seems like ages, they just stare at each other from opposite sides of the narrow hall—or rather, they pretend they aren't staring at each other, looking away quickly every time their eyes happen to meet.

Benvolio eventually abandons his hopes that Tybalt will become bored and go away. “So.” Tybalt’s eyes narrow as he breaks the silence. “What are you doing out of Verona, then?”

Tybalt lets out a harsh laugh. “Like I’m going to let you spy on me.” He folds his arms and tosses his hair out of his face.

Benvolio should have seen that coming. He sighs and gives up on trying to talk. 

At last the door of the office opens. Benvolio slips inside quickly, enjoying the brief startled look on Tybalt’s face as he slams the door on him.

It takes almost another hour of trying to get the elderly lawyer to focus instead of drifting around the room sorting random heaps of books and papers before Benvolio finally gets the documents Lady Montague needed.

To his relief (of course it’s relief he feels, what else would it be) Tybalt is gone by the time he steps into the hall again. He can get ready for the trip back to Verona in peace, Benvolio thinks as he tucks the documents safely into the lining pocket of his vest.

As he pushes the door of the guild house open, Benvolio realizes it’s much further into the afternoon than he thought. It’s too late to make it back to Verona before dark, and stopping at a waystation on the way back, on top of the doubled carriage fees from making the trip in two stages, would exhaust his funds from Lady Montague.

Benvolio only has a few moments to consider this problem before another one confronts him. As he starts to step into the road from the bottom step of the guild house porch, Tybalt grabs his arm and yanks him back into the shadow of the building.

“You—I thought you—”

Benvolio breaks off as Tybalt hooks his fingers under the leather collar and pulls him up, so close their faces are almost touching. For several endless moments after that, he seems to have entirely forgotten whatever it was he was going to say.

Tybalt’s eyes are very dark brown, but with hidden amber glints like the reflection of faraway stars. Benvolio has never seen them so close before, or so wide compared to Tybalt’s usual glare. His legs tremble a little with the effort of keeping his balance on his toes—he wants to do nothing more than give in, sink into those eyes and drown.

Ages later, Tybalt finally takes his hand away from the collar, but he grabs Benvolio’s arm again before he can back away. “You…” He takes a deep breath. “You are going to help me, now,” he says, with a sharp smile.

“...Oh?”

Tybalt thrusts a hand into his pocket and comes out with a piece of paper. Benvolio blinks as Tybalt shoves it in his face, trying to focus.

It’s an address. “Was _that_ why you were in the alley yesterday? You were _lost!?_ ”

“That’s none of your business, Montague,” Tybalt growls, but he glances away and tosses his hair restlessly. “Now help me, if you want to get back to your friends in one piece.”

“Yes, yes, I get it, you’re very scary…” Benvolio takes the paper and lets Tybalt pull him into the street. He’s a little surprised (and definitely relieved, not disappointed) that Tybalt didn’t decide he needed to be convinced at knifepoint.

Taking out the sketched map of the city Lady Montague gave him before he left, Benvolio looks from it to the directions Tybalt brought with him. “That’s probably in the merchant district,” he says. “This way.”

They walk through the narrow streets in silence. Benvolio could almost pretend Tybalt isn’t there, apart from the firm grip he still has on his arm. It feels like his fingers are burning through the leather.

“There, that wasn’t so hard to find, was it,” Benvolio says, gesturing at the arched doorway of Tybalt’s destination, a Venetian jewel dealing organization’s Rovigo office.

“Hm.” Tybalt’s fingers slowly slide down Benvolio’s sleeve, leaving a trail of heat behind, but he doesn’t let go.

“So what are you doing here? Capulets hard up?” Benvolio asks, hoping the tone he hit upon actually sounds casual.

As he expected, Tybalt reacts with instant suspicion, pushing him away and warning him back with the point of the knife. “That’s none of your concern,” he snaps, snatching the paper away and turning with a swirl of heavy curls to pound on the door.

Benvolio watches him vanish inside, wondering why he said what he did. Perhaps it felt safer to fan the flames of Tybalt’s anger rather than to address the possibility that outside Verona maybe things could be different.

Just for this little while.

It’s a ridiculous thought, but Benvolio finds himself waiting in the shadows next to the doorway all the same.

He waits a long time—so long that he almost gives up and assumes Tybalt must have given him the slip through a back exit. But it’s not as if he has anything better to do in town that afternoon, so he stays.

The sun is beginning to dip a little when the door finally opens and Tybalt emerges.

He doesn’t notice Benvolio at first. Benvolio quickly tells himself that the slight frown he glimpses is just his imagination, or perhaps because he’s annoyed his unwilling guide escaped.

He knows he should just wait until he’s gone, and be glad to be rid of him.

“Took you long enough,” Benvolio says as Tybalt steps past him into the street.

Tybalt’s back goes taut.

There’s a long moment before he turns.

“You’re still here,” he says, seemingly trying to growl but only producing an alluring purr that makes Benvolio’s breath hitch. His hand goes to his knife, but only rests there lightly.

“As you can see,” Benvolio says, stepping away from the wall. 

He approaches slowly. Apart from getting in bed with him, this is the first time in the last two days that he’s come near Tybalt of his own accord, without being dragged. He can hardly believe he’s actually doing it.

Tybalt looks equally startled, and takes a half-step back before stopping.

He could take another step now, Benvolio thinks. Another step and they would be almost touching. And then…

He can’t make himself move, and the magic moment ends.

“Damn them, making me wait so long,” Tybalt says as he turns away. “I can’t believe we’re stuck here for another night now.”

Benvolio blinks. “‘We’?”

“Of course, ‘we’,” Tybalt laughs scornfully as he looks over his shoulder. “Did you think you were going to get out of paying for your half of the room?”

Benvolio takes a few quick paces to catch up with him as he walks briskly out of the alley. “So that’s it.”

“Obviously.”

“And not because the inn is the other way, of course.”

Tybalt whirls on his heel with a growl, the spin flinging his curls around his shoulders and half into his face.

Benvolio can’t stop himself from laughing.

“I’m not lost,” Tybalt declares firmly. He elbows Benvolio in the side as he catches up.

“You’re the one with the knife, so I have to agree with you.”

“Hm.” Tybalt shoves his hands in his pockets and glances away. His expression is half-hidden by his hair, but...Benvolio can’t exactly describe it as pouting, but it’s certainly not his customary scowl.

They don’t talk any more after that.

It feels strangely peaceful, walking through the streets together in the sunset. It’s only a false fantasy, Benvolio knows, but walking next to Tybalt like this, feeling him brush up against his sleeve from time to time...it’s easy to pretend the circumstances are different.

That they’re...something else.

“Send up some wine!” Tybalt calls to the innkeeper as he shoves the door of the inn open.

Benvolio pauses in the doorway—it would certainly be wisest to wait for nightfall in the tavern room, rather than going to the room where Tybalt could easily corner him.

Still, while Benvolio has always been one to give other people advice, he’s discovered over the last two days that it’s far more difficult to follow it himself.

Benvolio reaches the room just as a maid leaves with an empty tray. Tybalt is already sitting on the bed with the bottle of wine as he opens the door.

Tybalt rests his chin on his hand, watching Benvolio cross the room to pretend to look out the window. “So you didn’t run off.”

Benvolio doesn’t turn. “Didn’t seem safe to be wandering the streets at night.”

There is a soft rustle from the bed, and then a quiet thump as Tybalt sets the bottle on the table. Benvolio holds his breath, still staring into the dark street.

Tybalt grabs his arm and Benvolio gasps, his heart starting to race as Tybalt spins him around and pushes him against the wall. “And it seemed safe to be in the same bed as a Capulet, then?”

“I...I just…”

Benvolio can’t hold himself back any longer. Let Tybalt kill him—he’d rather die than lose this chance, go back to Verona and live with the knowledge that he had an opportunity but was too much of a coward to try.

Tybalt starts as Benvolio grabs the collar of his jacket and pulls himself up to kiss him. Benvolio has his eyes closed, but he can feel one of Tybalt’s curls fall across his cheek at the movement.

All too soon, Tybalt shoves him back. His eyes have gone very wide, Benvolio sees as he opens his own. “What are you up to?” Tybalt demands, drawing his knife and putting it under Benvolio’s chin to tilt his face up. There is an undercurrent of curiosity in his voice, or perhaps more than curiosity.

“What did it look like?” Benvolio responds, surprised at his own boldness.

Tybalt blinks. Slowly, he trails the point of the knife down along Benvolio’s throat, stopping at the hollow of his collarbone. He leans in—Benvolio holds his breath—then pauses. “Try anything and I’ll stab you,” he says, his voice breathy around the dangerous low purr.

Even in his dreams the night before, Benvolio never imagined that Tybalt’s kisses would be so gentle. His lips are warm, and the first kiss is very slow and soft, as if he’s afraid of retaliation despite the knife he has at Benvolio’s throat.

Benvolio opens his mouth and Tybalt follows suit to claim it. Benvolio can faintly distinguish the sharp taste of the wine. He doesn’t even realize Tybalt has sheathed the knife until Tybalt cups his chin in one hand, his other hand sliding slowly under the leather coat and around his hips.

Benvolio gasps at the sudden rush of heat.

He isn’t exactly sure how they end up on the bed, only that a few moments later he’s lying on top of Tybalt, his hands buried in the thick curls as he kisses him hungrily. Tybalt tugs at the buttons of his vest.

Some prudence finally emerges, and Benvolio backs away for a moment. “If you cut my vest off I’m leaving,” he says as Tybalt snarls in frustration. “I like it.”

Tybalt takes his hands away and falls back on the bed, a sharp cat’s smile on his lips as he watches Benvolio slowly unbutton the vest. Benvolio blushes a little as the last button comes undone and he drops it to the floor to join his coat, then reaches up to unfasten the leather collar.

“Leave that,” Tybalt says quickly.

Benvolio blinks, blushing harder, and Tybalt laughs.

“You might at least take your jacket off,” Benvolio says.

“Montagues are so hard to please…” Tybalt pushes Benvolio away long enough to slide the jacket off and toss it vaguely in the direction of one of the chairs. With a sharp tug, he unties the collar of his shirt, smirking as Benvolio stares.

Grabbing Benvolio’s arm, Tybalt pulls him down, rolling to pin him underneath him. Benvolio gasps, digging his hand into Tybalt’s hair again, as Tybalt kisses his neck. “Still sorry my friends aren’t here to watch me die?”

Tybalt growls against his ear, making Benvolio’s whole body tremble. “You’ll die more than once before the night is through, I think.”

* * *

“This will never work, obviously.”

“Mm,” Benvolio affirms as he kisses the base of Tybalt’s jaw.

“What am I supposed to do, go to the Montague estate and ask for your hand?” The carriage jolts over a bump in the road, and Tybalt falls against Benvolio. He grabs the back of the bench to catch himself and wraps an arm around Benvolio’s waist. “They’d kill us both.”

“Do we have to think about that?” Benvolio says as Tybalt pulls him halfway into his lap.

“This doesn’t...this _can’t_ change anything between us,” Tybalt growls, although with far less fury than the first time he’d said it in the alley. He hooks his fingers around the leather collar and tugs Benvolio’s face close enough to kiss again.

For a while, there is silence.

“I’m still going to kill you one day,” Tybalt says.

Benvolio looks outside as the carriage rumbles past a way marker. 

Ten miles to Verona. 

“Must you?”

Tybalt’s fingers trail across his hip. “You’re a Montague.”

“Yes…”

“And I’m a Capulet.”

“Yes.” Benvolio puts his hand over Tybalt’s.

“So how else is it going to end?”

Benvolio sighs, staring out the carriage window at the blurred forests.

Tybalt grabs his chin and turns his face back towards him. “Now come here and kiss me again.” 

There are ten miles left to Verona, and Benvolio is going to make every second worth it.


End file.
